Deprivation
by blc
Summary: Very dark, very M one-shot of B & B's capture, torture, and winning free from a killer. Serious violence and torture imagery. Established B/B. Disclaimer: characters are the property of Fox & its producers. Plot, dialogue, author's own.


_**A/N-- many thanks to celtic33 for his beta suggestions, and help with the ending! **_

**Warning: Very dark themes of violence and torture.**

* * *

They'd been run off the road, struck from behind-- Booth knew that much. He thought they were closing in on the hideout, based on what was supposed to be a reliable, confirmed tip, when all of a sudden, there was a crushing blow from behind, and they were tumbling down the steep dropoff at the side of the road, her yelling out once and holding on for dear life as he did the same. Then everything turned black. Whatever hit them seemed to come out of nowhere. He cursed himself, wondering how long the killer had trailed them with lights off as he drove ahead in the darkness before they reached the right curve in the road, with the steep dropoff destined to make him lose control of the truck. The Tac Team that was supposed to meet them might not even find the truck right away. It was a very steep dropoff.

When he woke, his hands and legs were tied to a chair. He'd been searched enough that his guns were gone. He'd have to hope they hadn't found the rest of his weapons-- but he couldn't use them yet, anyway. It was going to take him time to get loose. He'd been gagged, and the gag sealed with duct tape, to ensure he wouldn't be able to yell out. He tested it anyway-- the noise that came out wouldn't even be heard three feet away. Well, that had happened before. Once he got his hands free, he could take care of it. As far as he could see, he was in some utterly nondescript warehouse, the only windows up at the top of the building. There were various pipes and chains and other signs of some old manufacturing operation overhead, hanging at the various crazy heights that told of years of different businesses using and retrofitting the old space. There were small, dim lightbulbs lit, on low fixtures-- too widely spaced, too low and too dim for their light to reach the upper windows, to tell the rest of the world that someone was here.

All of these thoughts came and went in an instant, his highly-trained senses automatically taking in his surroundings, planning routes of escape, identifying objects that could be used as shields and weapons. His focused, conscious, furious thoughts were _where was she_, and _what was that sick bastard they'd been chasing going to do with her_? It wouldn't be good. He had to get himself loose, fast. The three sets of female remains they'd recovered showed significant torture, the ages of the different injuries indicating that they were inflicted over the course of three days. Markings on tissue and particulates indicated that the killer also used visual sense deprivation, a blindfold, most likely, to heighten the fear and pain the victims felt. Fatigue poisons in the tissues Cam tested revealed that the killer used sleep deprivation on top of everything else. Though it was always only three days, chronologically, Booth knew from personal experience that to the victims it would seem endless. The victims would not have had the tiny glimmer of hope that he at least had in the past, that someone might be coming for them. Now, though, he knew he was their own best hope. The Squints would call the Bureau when they didn't return a call or two, but Booth had no way of knowing yet how much time had passed or if the Tac Team successfully backtracked the route they'd taken before being run off the road. While the Squints were good, they were always better when he or Bones were around to drive them.

Where was she? He couldn't hear anyone else behind him, and he couldn't crane his head too far to either side-- the bastard really knew how to tie someone, tight. Bruises, a cracked rib or two when he'd hit the steering wheel. His head hurt like hell but his vision was clear, so maybe he'd escaped a concussion. His hands weren't yet numb, and his fingers were loose. As he flexed his limbs, he was relieved to find that aside from what felt like a few small cuts and bruises, everything else seemed to be working. Could he work his hands into the back of his belt? There was a small metal file there-- if he could get at it, getting his hands free would be so much easier. He strained upward, trying to force himself as far back into the chair as he could, and goddamnit, he was almost there. The leather brushed the back of his hands. Just a few more tries, he might make it.

A door opened, behind him, and he stilled, letting his head sag forward instantly as he pretended to still be unconscious. He needed to hear. How many feet were walking, and were they taking heavy or light steps? It was a man, walking at a moderate pace, carrying something moderately. Carrying her? He heard no struggle, no sound or voice from her at all. If he had her, she wasn't conscious. The steps paused behind him, and there was a movement as something like a body was uncermoniously dropped to the floor.

"I know you're awake," came the voice. "Not for long, though. I'll play with you later, when everything else is arranged." He could only steel himself for the object that struck the side of his jaw from behind, before blackness returned.

--

When he woke, his head splitting but his vision still clear, it was to a scene from his worst nightmares. Perhaps eight feet away hung one of the many dangling chains. He'd tied her hands together, over her head, and then hooked the ropes binding her wrists to the rusty steel hook at the end of the chain. He'd tied her ankles, too, then pulled the chain upward, so that most of her weight was borne by her wrists and shoulders, unless she managed to find what little clearance he'd left under her. If she was conscious, and able, she could just touch the balls of her feet to the floor, and take some of the weight off her arms. Every little bit would help-- prolonged hanging like that affected the victim's ability to draw a full breath, as the upward pull on the diaphragm and the fear engendered by the position made controlled breathing increasingly difficult. She would know that, too, when she woke, but he had no idea what shape she was in, how strong she would be. She was still unconscious, head hanging, weight limp and dragging from the hook. The killer had bound a blindfold tightly around her eyes. He'd also stripped her jacket and overshirt from her, leaving her in her jeans and a tank top. Gooseflesh stood out on her arms and chest in the cold damp of the warehouse, and he could see bruises and cuts from the car accident tainting her skin.

"You know what's going to happen, don't you Agent?" came the voice, silky and cold, from behind him. "But she doesn't. She doesn't know that you're here. She has no idea if anyone's coming for her. And she knows that you were with her, and that you might have been hurt, might even be dead. She'll doubt whether you'll be able to save her-- whether anyone will. She can't see that you're sitting right here, and she won't be able to hear you try to make her hold on." A gloved finger pressed hard at the edge of the duct tape, emphasizing the point, then dug into the bruise on his jaw where he'd been struck, earlier. He managed not to flinch. "She doesn't know, but _you_ do. It makes the game much more exciting, you see. I should have thought of this earlier. One, not knowing, and thinking she's been abandoned. And one, knowing everything, and yet, he's unable to do anything. See, I know your type, Agent. Anything I might do to you physically would be meaningless. But there's so much fun to be had in making you _watch_." There was a pause, and then a shifting of weight behind him. "But I'm not quite ready yet, I think. You'll just have to wait a little while longer." The blow came again from behind, again, harder, on the side of his jaw. Blackness followed.

- - - - - -

He was woken by the deep buzzing sound of a transformer and rheostat, humming voltage into the air. As he opened his eyes, he followed the line from the rheostat to its end-- the picana held in the killer's hand. He wore gloves, but hadn't bothered to hide his face. He thought he would kill them both. And he was waiting, smiling, for Booth to wake up. As soon as he noted this, an essential fact to him that made the game worth playing, he turned and spoke to her, no longer needing to make sure that his audience was watching. He knew the Agent wouldn't be able to tear his eyes away. Her face was set in stone, and Booth had no idea what ideas the killer might have tried to implant while he was out.

"I'm sure you know, Dr. Brennan, about the picana. It's a special piece of equipment," the killer said. "Specially designed, just for people. You see, cattle prods are so messy, and unpredictable. The picana is easier to control. I can use it longer, you see, because it won't kill you immediately. The voltage isn't unpredictable, and I can adjust it if I think you're not responding the way I want you to, or if I think you need a bit of a rest." His voice was utterly oily and cold.

She was silent, listening, doing her best to balance on the balls of her feet and to control her breathing. Booth was just close enough that he could see the rise and fall of her chest, as well as the sweat soaking her despite the fact that it was increasingly colder in the warehouse. His eyes on her the whole time, as he knew he had to, or the killer would know the Agent had something else on his mind, Booth pushed backward in his seat, straining while trying to be silent so his fingers could reach that file in his belt. He missed on the first try, and then on the second as the first jolt and sizzle of the prods touching her skin made her jerk as she clenched her mouth shut, biting down on any scream that might have escaped. Even as ice flooded his veins, his heart swelled with pride in her. She thought she was alone, and yet she still would hold out against giving the bastard the satisfaction of hearing her scream. On the third try, he managed to get one finger hooked under his belt. As the killer shocked her again, he managed to get a second finger under the leather, and he slid them along until his fingertips found it, the small slit in the belt where the little metal file lived. There was a reason he always wore the same beat-up brown belt, just switching the buckles as the mood struck him. He thanked whatever saint took care of people about to be tortured that he'd chosen his Ranger buckle this morning. If he could get free, it also held things he could use, though there were plenty of other things waiting to become weapons around him. He waited, his fingers resting over the space he'd need to work the small metal miracle from, until after he'd shocked her a third time, and she clenched her mouth shut against the pain again.

After a while, perhaps a dozen shocks or more, without a verbal response from her, the killer paused. "You're not as much fun as you could be," he said, sounding disappointed. Booth by this time had managed to coax the file under one finger, and was trying to maneuver his wrists to see if he could find any room to flex. With some effort and what would be some serious rope burn, he managed a little room, and began to work the file up into his palm. He stopped, waiting, when it was securely nestled inside, hidden, in case the killer decided to come check on him. Just then, the killer stepped away from Brennan, bending to pick up something from behind the table where the rheostat was placed, then placed it in front of her, smiling at the Agent. Damnit. A bucket of water. "Perhaps a little more power will persuade you to play with me. The sooner you do, the sooner I'll let you have a little rest," he said, turning back to the meter to turn up the voltage. Booth flexed his wrists again against the ropes in his fury, feeling them pull a little looser.

The killer prodded her further, eliciting nothing but her clenched jaw-- but soon a trickle of blood began to trail from where she'd bitten down on her lip. She couldn't control her body's jerking convulsion under the prongs of the weapon, but she was determined to hold out on a verbal response as long as she could, Booth knew. With each jolt the killer sent through her, the agent felt an answering one in his own body-- though the killer was right. If he'd merely physically tortured Booth, the agent would have been able to overcome it, and do what needed to be done. It was the sight of her suffering that tore at him. With her eyes blindfolded, she couldn't tell when the next jolt was coming. The killer moved too quietly for her to hear him immediately before he struck, either. She was shaking and tense with the effort of keeping her feet under her and waiting for the next blow. Despite the fact that the picana was designed to leave few marks on the skin, she was so fair that red burn marks and bruises were starting to bloom, obscenely, on her exposed skin. The sight was distracting, as it was meant to be, and Booth's headache from the blows he'd been dealt was now sharpened by the need to keep watching her as well as work on setting himself, and then her, free. The killer would glance over at him, randomly. There was no chance of averting his eyes, without the killer taking it out further on Brennan.

Sighing, the killer shocked her once more, bearing down longer and harder this time. Her answering jerk and shudder was followed by a bitten-off cry, only half-locked behind her teeth. "That's a good girl," he mocked, running his hand down the side of her cheek. Booth bit down on the gag to stifle a yell at the obscene caress. She pulled her face away, mouth still clamped shut, as he moved the picana to under her arm, bearing down deeply into the sensitive skin of the armpit. She jerked again, but managed silence this time, though it took her longer to regain her feet under her and find her standing balance again. Booth could see her teeth clenching, her jaw working against the pain.

"Oh, come now, we're just starting to have fun," the killer said, stepping back and slapping her open handed across the face. Her head snapped to the side, and lolled, before she pulled her head up again, but again, she made no noise other than the attempt to breathe deeply. He stood there, regarding her, occasionally flicking glances back over at Booth, before deciding. He turned back to the meter, and turned the voltage higher. Before he could shock her again, Booth managed to finally get his fingers solidly around the end of the file, and to manuever it under the ropes. He stopped, as soon as he did, waiting. The next shock drew a far stronger spasmodic jerk from her and a bitten-off cry, but she continued to hold out.

Booth was stunned at the stamina she'd shown, so far. He'd known stronger men who'd given their torturers more satisfaction far earlier in the game than she had. He worked at the ropes, the infinitesimal fraying under the file giving him something to concentrate on, something to hold, when the killer's attempts with mere higher voltage failed to draw out the full-throated reaction he craved. He repeated his torment until she completely lost her feet under her, and hung, shaking and sweating, from the chain, jolting but still refusing to scream with each poke of the weapon. Each jerk of her body ripped through his guts as he watched her. Finally, the killer seemed to tire of this first round, and bore down with the prod until she jerked, groaned aloud, and went limp. Booth could still see the rise and fall of her chest. She was merely unconscious, true to form. But it didn't matter if Brennan could last the three days, though he was sure that she could. What mattered, and what Booth now began to doubt, was whether he could stay sane long enough to get them both out of there.

"I do hate stubborn women," the killer said, as he released the chain from a clamp on the wall, and Brennan's body fell, limp, to the floor. "Time for your nap, Agent Booth," he said then, advancing on him and clipping him hard, again in the jaw. He had just enough time to clench his fist around the file, before blackness claimed him again.

- - - - - -

When he came to again, the file was still gripped in his hand. Thank God. Flexing his wrists, he felt the same play that he'd worked into the bonds from earlier. He kept his eyes closed as he moved his fingers to regrasp the metal between his fingers, then set it back against the ropes. Only then did he dare pretend to jerk awake. His jaw throbbed, adding to his incredible headache-- it was at least dislocated, probably broken.

"She's not awake yet," came the killer's voice, from in front of him. "Not surprising, you recover rather quickly. You've a hard head on you, Agent." He was kneeling in front of a chair, his large body blocking the view as he finishing tying something to the legs of a chair, the bucket of water, rheostat, and picana sitting on the table beside him. There were other things, too, on the table, but he couldn't see what they were no matter how he craned his neck. As he stood, Booth's fury raged even higher. He'd stripped Brennan down to her underwear, her clothes carelessly tossed to the side. He'd bound her ankles so tightly to the legs of the chair that he could see the white edges where circulation was cut off around the bindings. Her arms were bound behind her, her shoulders pulled back so tightly her chest was thrust forward, her lower back probably arched away from the back of the chair. It would hurt more, that way, when he shocked her again, her body contorting against itself and the picana. Her skin was crawling with cold despite her deep unconsciousness, her breathing shallow. In the time he'd been out, her skin had grown dozens of bruises and some burns from the more prolonged contacts the instrument made with her skin. Her lower lip was swollen badly from where she'd been biting it, and a bruise on her cheek marked where the killer had slapped her.

Standing back from his handiwork, the killer stroked his chin, then looked at the Agent, appraisingly. "She is stunning-- such incredible skin. I see why you chased her for so long. I'm sure she's worth it in bed." His tone raised the hair on the back of Booth's neck, even as his fingers, cramping, re-gripped the file and began to saw harder. He flexed his legs again, and gained a small bit of play in the ropes. Good. Once he had his hands free, he would have to move quickly to somehow immobilize the killer long enough for him to work the rest of his limbs out of their bonds. He flexed his forearms again, and again, a small bit of give emerged.

Part of his mind wondered if the squints were looking for them yet, if the Bureau knew, if Rebecca had again been notified that her son's father had gone missing. It was dark out, still, but he had no way of knowing how close they were to morning. His eyes scanned the room, looking for the most likely possibilities to aid him once he got his hands free. Though he knew that some noise he could make might reassure Bones, anything he might do at this point would endanger them both, if he couldn't manage at least to work his hands free. Though it was the torture the killer had hoped for, he bit down on the urge to yell out each time that bastard touched her, the urge to throw himself in the chair to the side so she could hear the noise and know that she wasn't alone. She was strong, and she would last out the three days before the killer tired and slit her throat, as he had with the others. Booth would win free before then. He had to.

"You two make quite a pair, scientist and agent, husband and wife." the killer continued, annoyed by Booth's lack of response. Booth didn't even look at him-- he just kept his eyes trained on her, watching her breathing, each shallow rise and fall a promise that he had time to get them out of there. "Such a track record, even with so many perils. Then again, most of your targets haven't been as smart as I am. Do you know, I was excited when I learned that you two were asked to review my latest victim's case, along with the others? It's so nice to have a challenge, for once. Those other girls screamed by the third time I stung them, and passed out for significant periods of time. Your lovely wife is ever so much more fun. So much more... stimulating." His tone promised more than Booth was willing to think about, then. He had to concentrate. As far as he could tell, he was only halfway through his bonds, and the flexing of his wrists hadn't done much to increase the give. He needed to work faster-- the killer was taking a personal interest, which would affect whether he stuck to his usual pattern.

He grunted involuntarily as the killer seized him by his jaw, looking him deep in the eye. "Tell me, is she this quiet in bed, or do you think I can get her to scream for me, too?" Booth's eyes narrowed in fury, his hands stilling behind him, but the killer merely laughed and let go. "Well, I've got time for that later," he promised, then picked up the bucket of water and threw it over Brennan's bound body. He took his time, walking back to a tap, and filling the bucket again, before returning to stand before the bound woman.

She jerked awake, gasping, as the cold water hit her, a shudder passing through her at the force of it. "Welcome back, Dr. Brennan," the killer purred, running a finger down the side of her face, and then trailing it lightly down her neck and between her breasts, before bringing his hand back up to grasp her chin and say into her ear, "It's still just you and me, dear. Are you ready to have some more fun?" She stayed silent, gritting her teeth as he fondled her arms and stomach, then ran his fingers along side her cheek again. Despite her silence, her skin literally crawled as the killer touched her.

Booth's fingers were shaking, and he stopped working at his bonds for a moment, willing himself to take deep breaths despite the sight in front of him. Too much would be lost if he dropped the file, and then had to start all over again. He flexed his wrists again, feeling a little more give. Not enough. He let one corner of his mind start imagining all the ways he would kill the disgusting bastard when he was free, and it calmed him enough for his fingers to cease their trembling. He tested the bonds at his legs again, pulling, until another slight slackness was earned.

"What's the matter, dear? Don't you care for a simple human touch? Or are you waiting for your knight in shining armor to arrive? I can tell you, assuredly, that you're alone. No one knows where you are." Her jaw was still set, and as he caressed her face again, he let his finger stray too close, and she turned her head and bit down hard on the digit he'd left too close to her mouth. The killer screamed, and jerked away, then backhanded her with his other hand. Booth's heart swelled with pride again at her ferocity. His Bones would take what chances she could, and he bet that the killer would back off, for a while, on that particular method of torture.

The killer nursed his finger for a moment, then picked up the bucket of water and soaked her again. Again, he took his time refilling the bucket before returning and setting it down. He then walked back to the rheostat, turning it on and grasping the picana in the hand still unwounded. "Well, that's unfortunate," he said, returning to stand near her, the instrument's buzzing from the current loud in the otherwise quiet warehouse. "Perhaps you prefer more mechanical stimulation, then. No wonder your husband hasn't come for you yet."

Booth braced himself for the shock that would go through her when the bastard was done making her wait. Wet skin reduced electrical resistance, making the shocks administered more painful, even though the current and voltage remained the same. It simply heightened the victim's suffering. Grasping the file again in his fingers, he sawed more desperately now, as the part of his brain imagining how the killer would die ramped up its own fury. She managed to keep silent the first and the second time the prongs found her skin, but the killer stopped and turned up the voltage before returning, to shove the prod firmly into the skin at the top of one breast. Her scream stopped Booth's heart even as a large strand of rope broke free from around his wrists. Testing the ropes again, he found they were definitely weaker, and he dared to jerk his legs against the legs of the chair while the killer's back was turned. He just needed to keep working, despite the fact that she was screaming freely now, her body convulsing against the chair with each jolt. The killer was barely leaving her enough time to draw a breath between one jolt and another, and her voice was becoming broken and hoarse.

The killer pulled back then, his face flushed and an evil smile on his face, and said, "Much better, sweetheart. But you know what? You still owe me from earlier." She was still soaked from her earlier dousing, her teeth chattering from the cold and the pain, her skin crawling with cold even as her body convulsed from the last shock sent through her. Merciless, the killer picked up the bucket of water and doused her again, then shocked her while she was still choking on the water he'd thrown at her. The long, bloodcurdling scream she let out finally snapped Booth's control, but his stifled cry of fury was coupled with the final strands breaking from his wrists. As her scream stilled, the Agent's head drooped forward, panting against the gag. The killer paused, having heard the muffled noise that emerged from the Agent, and looked, a smile stealing over his face as the second stage of the game came into play. He shocked her again, lightly, this time, but she was past controlling her cries, and a moan emerged from her as she lolled, panting and shaking, against her bonds. The Agent's head jerked at the sound, but he didn't look up.

The killer, satisfied, tried it again, and her gasped and nearly voiceless moan of pain only elicited another jerk and a barely audible moan from the Agent. He was completely slumped in the chair, a defeated cast to his shoulders. The killer knew he could slow down now, and take his time-- perhaps he would even remove the Agent's gag now that he was broken, so she would suffer even more, hearing him break each time the killer hurt her again. This would be much more entertaining than those last three girls.

He decided, and put the instrument down on the table as he approached the Agent silently. He wouldn't want to spoil the surprise for the scientist when she heard her husband's voice cry out when the killer shocked her again. Deciding, he forced the Agent's head up with one hand. His eyes were closed, and he was moaning. The killer smiled, then squeezed the Agent's jaw where he'd broken it earlier, forcing the man's eyes to snap open. He leaned forward, to whisper in the Agent's ear, "I think we'll change things around now. You two are playing so nicely." Pulling slightly back, he reached in to remove the tape holding the gag in place, still gripping Booth's jaw in a vise-like grip.

As the killer's hand grasped the edge of the tape, Booth suddenly shifted, pulling the killer's head forward, as his hands grasped either side of his face, and twisted. There was a wet cracking noise as the killer's head turned at a grotesque angle. Brennan's head snapped up at the noise, her attention straining to locate the source. Booth stilled, holding the head in his hands just long enough to look in its eyes and watch the light dim, then cast it away from him, like the trash that it was. Reaching up, he gritted his teeth as he tore the tape from his face, then spat out the gag. "Bones," he called, his voice strained but still loud, as he forced the words past his aching jaw. "I got him. You just hang on, okay?"

She gasped, then replied, "Yes," her chest heaving both in pain and relief.

Hands free, he was able to bend forward enough in the chair to make short work of the bonds at his legs. He paused long enough to check the pulse on the neck of the body, then made his way over to her, grabbing her clothes as he went. "I got you," he said, as he pulled the blindfold off of her, and she shook her head to clear her vision. "Frrr-rreez-ing," she chattered, rubbing her arms with her hands as soon as he got them untied. He sliced through the bonds at her ankles with the knife the killer laid out with his other implements of torture, rubbing her legs to return circulation. She hissed as the blood flooded back into her legs.

"Your poor face," she said, her voice rasping and almost inaudible, one fingertip on his chin turning him so she could look at the damage the killer inflicted, as he continued to kneel before her, chafing her cold white skin.

"Your poor everything," he husked, swallowing back tears now that she was safe again. He stood, then said, "Do you think you can stand?"

She nodded, and let him take her hands and pull her to standing. "I'll manage," she whispered, one hand coming to rest on his chest for balance. He took up her jacket, then, and began rubbing it up and down her chilled body, as she stood, teeth still chattering. She occasionally hissed or gritted her teeth as the fabric passed over bruised and burned areas, but when he made to stop, she said, "No, I need to dry off."

He finished, then held up her shirt to her, sliding it onto her arms and up over her shoulders, since the muscle strain from her earlier suspension made it impossible for her to raise her arms very far. He had to sit her back down again to help with her pants. "I don't know where the rest of our things are," he said, as she stood again.

"Let's just get out of here," she said, forcing her voice as she continued, "at least to see if we can tell where we are."

He winced as her arm around his waist pressed into his broken ribs, and she winced as his arm at her waist pushed against the bruises she'd earned falling into the door as the truck rolled and crashed. "What a pair," he said, trying to make light as each limped and hissed their way to the nearest door. There was a sound of trucks approaching, tires spinning on gravel, as they began to reach the door, and they stopped, listening. They both looked around, and he noted a small alcove not too far from the door.

"There," he said, nodding, and glancing, she nodded back, as they crept to the darkened space, tucking themselves out of sight to wait. He grasped a pipe lying on the floor as they walked, and she pointed at a smaller crowbar for him to hand to her. Her hands shook as she closed her hands around the metal, but still she held on to it, white-knuckled.

There was a pounding of feet on the gravel, and then the door burst open, lights flooding the entryway as a team of tac armor-clad officers swarmed the door and announced their presence.

When the initial rush cleared, they stepped out of the alcove. "You're late," he croaked, "but it's nice to have a ride home, at least." The squad leader blanched as he took the two of them in, battered, bruised, bloody, and broken-looking. "He's over there," Booth continued, pointing back toward the table and the two chairs, facing each other.

As the team stood, mouths agape, the agent and scientist, husband and wife, made their way out the door. As they emerged, the rest of the team, waiting, heard them begin one of their characteristic arguments.

"You're going to the hospital," he said.

"Only if you are," she rasped.

"I don't need it, I'm fine." He tried to clench his jaw, stubbornly, then winced.

"Then I'm not going either." She stared him down, despite the fact that her teeth were chattering again. One of the tactical agents ran over with blankets, but stopped to the side and waited as the two stared at each other.

"Fine," he said, sighing. "But only if you give me your pudding."

"I can handle that," she said, agreeing, then looking over to the man waiting with blankets.

Booth turned his head, now taking notice of the agent as well, and said "Thanks." He took both blankets, and shook one out, placing it over her shoulders. She hissed as she lifted her arms enough to pull it more snugly around her.

He went to place the second blanket over her shoulders, and she glared at him, saying, "You're cold, too, you know." He glared back, then finally relented, shrugging the fabric over his own shoulders.

"How did you find us?" she croaked, turning to one of the initial team members now emerging from the building.

"Dr. Hodgins called to say neither of you were answering your phones-- then he tracked Agent Booth's vehicle to where it was... crashed, based on the radio receiver," said the young man, clearly intimidated by the two. The range of torture instruments and the thickness of the ropes lying around the chairs painted a grim scene, and that they'd already freed themselves before the tac team could arrive overwhelmed him. "He said he found some crystals or something that could have come from here, and gave us the address."

She turned to smile at her husband. "You'll have to give Jack some of your pudding."

He rolled his eyes, but didn't argue, other than to say, "It's not fair to deprive a wounded man of his pudding." Turning to the still-stunned team members standing around, including the squad leader, he said, "Someone should call Dr. Saroyan to come get the body, and get some lights up to start gathering evidence." Most of the agents scattered, leaving only the squad leader and a few underlings. "Now, who's driving us to the hospital?" he barked, and one underling scrambled off, saying, "I'll bring the car closer."

"Geez, Bones," he grumbled. "You want something done right, you have to do it yourself." The rest of the bystanders dispersed, as the squad leader went back in to start overseeing the collection of evidence. When they were alone again, each took a step toward the other, until he could wrap his arms around her, and she around him.

"I knew you were there," she murmured.

"I knew you wouldn't give up," he replied, his voice catching.

"I knew you wouldn't give up," she replied. Each brought their lips lightly to the other's, concerned for their injuries-- she for his jaw and he for her bitten-through lip, but it was still a kiss of such passion that the agents working around them gave them a wide berth. They were in their own little world, no longer deprived of the other.


End file.
